


Rated PG for Smoking Images

by timetogoslumming



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 22:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetogoslumming/pseuds/timetogoslumming
Summary: Race tries to quit smoking.





	Rated PG for Smoking Images

I.

 

Spot and Race had no idea that their first date was a date until it was over. They agreed to meet up for a few drinks after meeting at a party and hitting it off, commiserating over their mutual gayness. There was something about finding another dude who liked dudes in a house full of straight guys that really made a guy feel comfortable.

After spending two hours in a bar sharing a plate of nachos and taking turns buying each other drinks, they walked slowly back towards their apartments, which they had learned during the conversation were only a few blocks apart. During the walk, just after leaving the bar, Race reached into his jacket pocket and grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He shook one cigarette out, lit it, and put everything else back in his pocket. He didn’t even have time to take a single drag before Spot interrupted. “You smoke?” he asked, sounding vaguely annoyed.

Race took a deep breath before blowing smoke out of his nostrils. “Yeah,” he replied casually.

“Can you _not_ do that around me?” Spot asked, practically holding his breath. Wordlessly, Race dropped the lit cigarette to the ground, snubbing it out with the toe of his shoe. “Are you going to pick that up?” Race just stared at Spot, but could see that he wasn’t backing down, so he picked it up off the ground with the intention of carrying it to nearest trashcan.

“Do you have a problem with smoking?” Race asked as they started walking again.

“It’s disgusting,” Spot snapped. “You’re literally inhaling tar. And you make everyone around you breathe it, too.”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything.”

“Oh, great!” replied Spot sarcastically. “Thanks for not making me _breathe_ in your presence.”

Race glared at him. “I can walk home alone if you have such a big problem with me.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re literally on my way.”

“Well, what if I want a cigarette?”

Spot sighed, relishing his last breath of clean air for the next couple of blocks. “Go ahead,” he said, resigned. “But don’t come crying to me when you get lung cancer.” Race lit his cigarette again and Spot took great care to take as few shallow breaths as he could. Although their conversation had flowed effortlessly all night, it was now awkward and tense. With hardly another word exchanged between the two of them, they arrived back at Race’s building, where after an awkward, stilted goodbye, they split up, Race standing out on the stoop to finish his cigarette, Spot walking the three blocks back to his own building.

 

It wasn’t until they were both home in bed reflecting on the evening that they both regretted how badly it went.

 

II.

 

The second date was an accident. They hadn’t planned on bumping into each other at the grocery store. They definitely hadn’t planned on getting supplies for a picnic. (It wasn’t a picnic, according to them. It was just two guys eating food outside in the park, occasionally sharing a piece of cheese or bunch of grapes.) They most certainly hadn’t planned on crashing back into Spot’s apartment, joined at the lips as well as the hips. Their magical afternoon in bed together certainly hadn’t been their plan for the day when they woke up that morning. The spell only broke when Race finally reached his breaking point and crawled out onto the fire escape for a cigarette.

 

III.

 

The third date was on purpose.

Race took Spot to a concert.

The concert was located in a grimy, smoky hall. The scent of sweat, beer, weed, and tobacco mingled in the air, and Spot did his best, but he finally had to run out, just before the band’s best song. Reluctantly, Race followed, casting a long glance back at the band on stage.

He found Spot sitting on a curb outside, taking a few deep breaths and resting his hands on his knees. “You okay?” Race asked.

Spot steadied himself. “It’s just really smoky in there, and I have asthma.”

“Oh, shit,” Race replied, running a hand through his hair and taking a seat next to Spot. “Do you have an inhaler or anything?”

“Didn’t bring one,” Spot replied. “But it’s not bad enough that I really need it yet. Just wanted some fresh air.” Race followed Spot’s line of eyesight and noticed a group of people smoking. “Or, fresh _er_ air,” he clarified.

“Sorry, I didn’t know,” Race said. “You want to leave?”

Spot shook his head. “No, you wanted to see this band, so go see them. I’ll wait out here.”

Race looked at Spot like he had just sprouted three heads. “I don’t give a shit about the band. They kind of suck live. I wanted to see you again, you idiot.”

 

IV.

 

After the night of the concert, Spot and Race began to see a lot of each other. They would get together for movie nights, dinners, plain old sex, or even board game nights. In between everything else, they got to know each other. Spot knew about Race’s problems with focus, the way his hands constantly had to be busy, and all of his research. Race knew about Spot’s family, his trouble with school, and his secret favorite show (Project Runway).

Race was always fidgety, but when they were in the middle of a movie and he couldn’t stop shaking his leg, that was when Spot knew that he would excuse himself to go outside for a cigarette soon.

As much as they vehemently denied being anything more than casual, eventually things had to be addressed. At a party that Race dragged Spot along to, he introduced Spot as his boyfriend.

“Am I your boyfriend?” Spot asked when they were alone.

Race shrugged. “Aren’t you?”

“...Yeah.”

 

V.

 

“I’m going to quit smoking,” Race declared one day out of the blue while he lounged around in Spot’s bed.

Spot jerked his head up from where he was putting on a pair of socks at the foot of the bed. “Wait, seriously?” he asked. “Why now?”

Race shrugged. “I dunno. I got winded coming up one flight of stairs on the way here.”

“I can’t believe I’m actually going to be able to breathe around you for once.”

“Shut up,” Race said, burrowing deeper into Spot’s bed.

Spot finished pulling on a sock. “Where are your cigarettes?”

“What?”

“I’m taking your cigarettes. Can’t smoke if you don’t have any.”

Race pointed to a pile of clothes on the floor. “Pants pocket.” Spot dug through the pockets of Race’s pants, confiscating the pack of cigarettes as well as his lighter. “Don’t take my lighter!” Race protested. “It’s a really good one!”

“I won’t throw the lighter out. I’ll just hold onto it for you,” Spot replied. “Be right back.” He disappeared from the bedroom, but came back a few moments later, holding the kitchen trashcan. “Do you want to do the honors?” The cigarettes in his left hand dangled over the trashcan.

“No,” Race groaned. “You go ahead.” He watched as Spot unceremoniously dropped the pack into the can. “That’s ten bucks I won’t be getting back.” Spot took the trashcan back to the kitchen and got back into bed, intertwining his legs with Race’s. “Ugh, take your socks off,” Race laughed as Spot tried to kiss him. “You know I hate it when you wear socks in bed.”

 

VI.

 

It only took two days before Race cracked. Spot walked over to Race’s apartment after work, and was immediately assaulted by the smell of smoke. “Race!” he called angrily.

“In my room,” Race yelled back.

Spot peeked into Race’s room, where his boyfriend was hunched at his desk over a calculator and a notebook, cigarette still smoking in an ashtray. “What the _fuck_?”

“I really don’t have time for this right now,” Race said anxiously. His wrists and forearms were grey from pencil lead and his hair stuck up in every direction.

“You’re smoking,” Spot accused from the doorway.

Race snubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah, apparently it’s not a good idea to decide to quit right before a huge deadline. Now can you leave me alone?”

“No, we’re talking about this _now_.” Spot crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. “How did you even get cigarettes? I threw them out.”

“That’s the funny thing about a free market,” Race said distractedly as he punched a set of numbers into his calculator. “You can always buy more.”

“Do you realize that I can’t _breathe_ in here?” It was true. Spot could already feel his lungs beginning to struggle in the smoky apartment. Judging by the number of cigarette butts in the ashtray, it looked like Race had had quite a few.

“Do you realize that I didn’t invite you over?” Race retorted, angrily slamming his pencil back down on the desk. “Just go home and we’ll talk later. I don’t need you nagging me right now.”

“Fine. Don’t bother calling me until you find some kind of backbone.” Spot turned on his heel and left, slamming the door of the apartment behind him.

Through the door, he could hear Race yell. “ _Fuck you_!” Spot shook his head. Race always had to have the last word. He made it down the steps but had to stop at the bottom to collect himself.

 

VII.

 

Like most of their fights, that one didn’t last long. Race tried to get back to the equation that he was trying to crack, but he couldn’t focus. It wasn’t the kind of lack of focus that nicotine cured- it was the type that only Spot could drive away. Finally, only about two minutes after Spot left, Race grabbed his cigarettes and ran out of his apartment, down the stairs, with the hope that he could catch Spot.

It was easier than he expected. Spot was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, taking deep, slow, breaths. “Hey,” Race said, putting a hand on Spot’s shoulder and taking a seat on the step next to him. “You okay?”

Spot nodded, holding a finger up to Race to signal that he needed a minute as he kept trying to gain control back over his breathing. “Do you need your inhaler?” Spot shook his head.

After a minute, Spot seemed to have things under control. Guiltily, Race handed over his cigarettes. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning against Spot’s shoulder. “Can you get rid of these for me?”

Spot took the cigarettes and pulled Race close. He leaned his face against Race’s neck for a moment, but pulled away quickly, looking disgusted. “You really stink.”

 

VIII.

 

For the next few months, Race was constantly falling off the wagon and climbing back on. He became a neverending stream of gum, nicotine patches, and e-cigs, but it never seemed to stick. If he had a really stressful day, or if he got too fidgety, he always found himself at the corner store buying a pack of cigarettes, with almost no memory of the walk there. Every time, he handed them over to Spot after getting caught.

Eventually, they made a chart to go on Race’s wall. _The Amount Of Money Race Has Wasted Smoking_. Every time he bought a pack, he had to add the price onto the list. Almost every time, Spot and Race got into explosive arguments about their health and wellbeing.

One night after an argument, Spot ended up having a serious asthma attack in Race’s apartment. Race rushed to get him his inhaler, hovering anxiously as Spot gained his control back. After a heartfelt apology from Race, they made their way back to Spot’s apartment to make dinner and escape the smoke, after a quick stop at the store on the way there for another pack of nicotine gum.

Spot did most of the cooking, but Race sat on the counter and watched, chatting with him about work. “Yeah, so, you know how I said Paul got fired?” Race said as Spot sauteed onions in a pan. “Well, he came back today _begging_ for his job back, and-”

“Can you stop gossiping for a minute?” Spot interrupted.

“Uh, yeah?”

Spot tossed a couple of pork chops into the pan, letting them simmer with the onions, before turning to face Race. “You know I love you, right?”

Race flushed. “I hoped you did,” he replied. “Because I love you, too.”

 

The pork chops were forgotten. Spot and Race only separated when the smoke alarm started to go off.

 

IX.

 

They were spending another night in Race’s bed one night, basking in the afterglow of especially good sex, kissing lazily, when Race abruptly got up and left the room. “Where are you going?” Spot called.

Finally, Race came back, carrying the kitchen trashcan, just like Spot had months before. One by one, he snapped his cigarettes in half, tossing them in the trash. “I’m done with this,” he said. “I’m not doing it anymore. I’m tired of fighting with you about it, and I’m tired of you not being able to breathe around me.”

“I don’t give a shit about my asthma,” Spot said, sitting up in bed. “I care about your lungs. I don’t want you dying.”

Race shook his head. “Either way. I’m fucking _done_ with this shit.”

  
X.

 

That night, though, after finally tossing his cigarettes, he got back into bed, pulling Spot in close. Spot said something against Race’s chest that he couldn’t hear. “What?”

“Let me move in here,” Spot repeated more clearly. “You live alone now and my lease is ending soon. We spend pretty much every night together anyway. It’s almost been a year.” He angled his face up, trailing kisses up Race’s jaw. “What do you think?” he finally whispered against his ear.

“Move in,” Race agreed in a ragged voice, before drawing Spot in for a kiss.

 

Race really did quit that night, completely cold turkey. It was hard, and there were dozens of times when he almost caved. He had to start shopping at places that didn’t sell cigarettes, but with Spot’s help, he did it, and eventually the cravings started to go away.


End file.
